


One Last Dance

by MischiefJoKeR



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Dancing, Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, Imagination, M/M, Psychology, Season/Series 03 Spoilers, Sheriarty - Freeform, Smoking, Wedding Night, jimlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-06
Updated: 2014-01-06
Packaged: 2018-01-07 17:32:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1122545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MischiefJoKeR/pseuds/MischiefJoKeR
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone has that voice that whispers all the ill-thoughts about themselves into their ear when they least want to hear it. Sherlock leaves the wedding early, to get some air, and confronts his thoughts.<br/><a href="http://www.jmzh.org/viewthread.php?tid=1138&page=1&extra=#pid16220">[近墨者黑——Sherlock非主流CP坛 提示信息]</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	One Last Dance

**Author's Note:**

> A drabble I started after seeing The Sign of Three and didn't really finish until two in the morning.

Sherlock watched, constantly. Even belligerent and unfortunately intoxicated in a short amount of time he was watching everything, regardless of clarity. He watched John and Mary, their panic receding from the news he’d dropped to them. They danced and mingled and forgot about the panic to have this one night, a night planned by the best man himself for mutual enjoyment for all sorts of normal people and close acquaintances, as it was a small gathering of only one hundred.

He watched Molly, with Tom, their relationship being sustained by her kind smiles and his lack of restraint when coming to know what she wanted when. He caught her glancing in his direction, and threw a smile her way, satisfying her silent curiosity and interest for the moment. He looked away immediately, not wanting to see the doppelganger’s wandering hands over her lovely canary dress.

Lestrade enjoyed an open bar as much as any man his age should. He was older than many of the other party-goers, and it was unsurprising in the last two years he and his wife drifted entirely apart, enough so that he’d attend a couple-friendly event like a wedding alone. He stood with Mrs. Hudson, listening to her chatter as well as he could handle. It was a wonder he didn’t find someone, his ability to listen and undying loyalty evident in most things done. Including sending an entire patrol to Sherlock’s flat to help write a speech. Perhaps he had been a bit too indiscreet with his distress call.

Eyes locked further across the room. Janine, pleasantly done brunette curls that remind him of another lovely woman smiles over at him. _Inhale_. Something about her attracted Sherlock. She asked questions, was interested in all the things he would say, even if it was trying to find eligible bachelors for her to take a favor to. He’d confided, no, not confided. He’d _chatted_ with her easily. All he had to do was walk arm-and-arm with her during the reception and share a dance after John and Mary. Yet still, he’d told her all the things she asked, even his guilty pleasure for dancing. _Dancing. Everyone’s dancing._ His toes tapped in his shoes and he ventured a step further across the floor, dodging a pair already twirling away.

Sherlock lifts his eyes and sees the man he’d deduced earlier, the one with horrible taste in ties and sci-fi interests, dancing next to Janine. His heels clicked together as he straightened himself, seeing the look from the woman in violet had disappeared and redirected it to that man’s direction. Marine eyes darted around, the outfits the patrons wearing shifting colors under the lighting, laughing, gossiping, drinking, dancing. And Sherlock was standing.

The thumping bass aided to the little notice people took to his retreating towards the entryway. The usher himself was sitting aside, glowering at the high-functioning sociopath as he took his coat.

“Heading home already, Mr. Holmes?” David asked politely in a way Sherlock knew was only in case anyone was listening, given the snarl to his lip. Sherlock smiled, grinning as he had at Baker Street during their talk.

“Just hopping out for a drag.” He patted his pocket, slapping a pack of cigarettes. David had already ceased listening, tapping away on his phone. Likely it was the Twitter account to check the wedding guests to see what they were tweeting about. He rolled his eyes, tugging the coat over his shoulders and stepping out into the garden. The arched windows changed colors and spattered the grass and shrubbery outside interchangeably, and the music was still thundering away while silhouettes moved behind glass.

The collar of his coat was tugged up to his chin, as normal, taking his eyes away from the rented room of the country house and onto the cobble path ahead. He breathed in the air, still and no wind but starting to become chilled, even with the beginning May summer. He took long strides, eyes low to the path until his toes stopped at a white wooden step. He glanced up from under his curled but gelled bangs, eyes going up the few stairs and onto a simple garden gazebo. Flowerpots dotted around the railings, other hanging pots at the rim of the ribbed ceiling coming to the point in a center. A couple lanterns hung by the main posts of the structure, unlit. He pondered. Considering all the work he’d gone through, he could celebrate one last cigarette before cutting off again. He’d gotten into quite the habit during the whole planning process.

Wiry fingers pulled the blue lighter out from his pocket, pacing over to a bench along one side and sitting down. A cigarette was placed between his bowed lips and held, hand cupping the flame and making sure the end lit. The faint glow finally started and he stuffed the lighter back into his coat pocket, keeping his hand there as the other held the cigarette. Sherlock’s eyes slid shut, head reclining and letting the smoke leave him in an exhausted exhale. He used the burn as an excuse for how his insides felt.

“Some party, huh?” Sherlock opened his eyes, smoke swirling and dissipating in front of him.  The wooden bench creaked on his right, another body settling in next to him. Sherlock’s head bobbed in the slightest bit of a chuckle, lowering the cigarette and holding it out. Cold fingers covered in leather took the offering, pulling another drag out of the lit fag. “Too loud, really. And _people._ They’ll all congratulate and talk, taking all the free things they can and getting home to never write again.”

“Seems customary.”

“That’s not why you left though, is it?” The voice dropped an octave, and Sherlock could hear the smile lacing it. “Not _quite_ true.” The voice stretched out the word, one of the gloved hands slinging over the back of the bench as the other tapped out the ash. When dark eyes, only appearing brown from the flames flickering into them and enhancing their amber tones, met Sherlock’s, he turned back to the building.

“People leave weddings early.” He recalled Mrs. Hudson and that— Margerie, Martha, Margaret— best friend of hers. _Ending of an era_. He tugged the cig back into his fingers and took another drag, but the other didn’t give pause before continuing.

“Not best men!” The voice chirped, amused. “Not best _friends.”_ All amusement changed to sharp disgust within a few moments. “Come now, Sherlock. Confide in me? How can you hold it all in, all the time, unable to tell anyone? Molly doesn’t count. You tell her you miss the doctor, but she’d tell you the color of her knickers just to make you walk away faster. Won’t even go to a chip shop with you.”

Sherlock stood, straightening his coat and turning on his companion. The dark eyes grinned up at him, the crinkles appearing at the corners as his teeth showed in a grin. “Confiding is only necessary when faking a death, which is, needing a confidante. From the root word ‘confide’. You aren’t a confidante no matter how alike you are disillusioned to believe we are.”

The other man stood as well, his head lolling on his shoulders to rid him of a kink in his neck that didn’t exist. His shoulders made him tall, or at least held the intimidating factor often present with tall persons. His hands went to his side, only partially held out with his palms up, as if he was showcasing something hilariously obvious.

“Well, you could just _ask,_ then.” His chuckle and words were laced heavy with the Irish accent he sometimes kept in. Sherlock took a breath, familiar with the way his shoulders heightened, chin lifting slightly, and his Adam’s apple bobbing in a swallow.  He glanced down at the cigarette still balanced in fingers, dropping its very particular ash onto the stained white wooden floor. Another beat later he looked away from the criminal and stubbed the butt out on the side of the banister more likely to get washed by with heavy rain. The butt dropped as well as the wall encasing his heart in heavy metal gates as Sherlock turned and offered his hand.

The leather gloved hand of Moriarty slipped into Sherlock’s, the second rising to his shoulder, taking up second position flawlessly with a grin. Sherlock breathed again, second hand on the criminal’s hip. Their eyes met. As if some connection they had intensified at that moment, Sherlock’s ears rang with music and they fell into step for the Waltz without fault. The detective led the criminal, for once, but Moriarty knew each step he was meant to take regardless.

“You are brilliant at dancing, then? Wasn’t some petty tease for big brother to make fun of? You enjoy it.” James asked after a circle around the enclosed gazebo, hardly four paces long.

“No. Just a kept hobby of mine.”

“Kept, hm. You gloat about everything, I don’t see why this was any different, with all that dexterity of yours.” Moriarty quipped, tilting his head and increasing his stride ever so slightly, making Sherlock’s grip loosen and slid further around his waist.

“Watching me?”

“Clearly,” Moriarty clicked his tongue. “You shouldn’t be so surprised after all those games we played. You flip a book, spin a chair, hop rooftops, flail around in the flat so much it’s hardly flailing as it is organized routine of grace.” The Irishman looked up at Sherlock. “I should’ve known. I thought my hint would have got you. I like to watch you dance.”

“I haven’t danced in years.”

“I saw.”

“My partner for the evening was deplorable and I couldn’t be seen dancing in boring tandem with scuffed shoes.”

“Pretty, though. Enough for you to share your little secret.”

“Thought perhaps mentioning my pleasure in it would inspire her to stop being utterly rubbish.”

“Expecting too much from people again. Always your fall.” Moriarty chuckled, the wrinkles around his lips and eyes visible once more as they turned. Sherlock averted his eyes once more, watching the flames flickering in the lanterns around them. “Alone protects you, that’s what you say, isn’t it?”

“That was before when I said I didn’t have friends.” Sherlock’s steps faltered. Moriarty stopped for a moment, tilting his head.

“Oh, you poor thing…you’ve gotten attached haven’t you? You’ve been saying it all night. John’s got a woman he loves…and a more demanding child to raise than you. He’ll hardly get a chance to go to the loo let alone amusing your experiments and jogging through London.”

“He said everything would be the same. We just back on each other’s good sides again.”

“ _You_ got on his good side. He lived without you Sherlock…dropping you again would be _so_ much easier a second time. He got enough grieving done when you were really gone.” Moriarty smiled, their dance effectively complete. His leathered hand on Sherlock’s shoulder brushed it, removing invisible creases before sliding down his collar where the coat opened. “Alone. Protects. You.” Moriarty hushed under his breath, looking up under his heavy lids, eyes dark.

Sherlock couldn’t force himself to look away, to back down, to say anything really. His creed, something he proclaimed more than once and rescinded for only John Watson, completely and utterly devoting himself to John’s happiness, for…

Oh, Mycroft really didn’t know what it was like to be lonely. John had explained that he often got lonely even in the company of people. Being an outsider, no one paying special attention to, being hated. Sherlock pointed out that it sounded like he went through every day. It was telling in of itself and John left to get the milk as promised, and the words were erased from Sherlock’s immediate memory.  But there, dug up from the trash piling up in the mind palace to be sorted through, was that feeling. Loneliness, not being seen. Everyone knew Sherlock was lonely except for the man himself, until now. He wouldn’t have minded dancing with Janine, laughing and informing her of her awful balance and timing. Molly, even. Mrs. Hudson walked in on him dancing and only praised his talents but hadn’t even glanced his way when he stood in the center of a crowd of people, ignored for others that were better.

He realized the grip on Moriarty’s waist and hand had tightened, when the criminal’s expensive shoes clicked on the wood, bringing them that last step closer.

“Alas poor Sherlock…it’s so sad to see you this way…so, boring.” The Irishman sighed, making his chest press into Sherlock’s more. “So lonely…all sad and not like everyone else, just like school, but now going back to the needle will just kill you. Bad rep for the papers too, the genius that survived a fall coming back to stardom just to go about his own illegal activities. Wouldn’t even need me to tarnish that.” He barked a laugh as Sherlock’s hand under Moriarty’s dropped to grasp the lapel of his suit. It was the same suit he wore the first time they met, Vivienne Westwood.

“You were wrong. You don’t know me. We’re nothing alike. That’s why you tried taking them all away from me.”

“Wrong.” The villain sang, remaining where he was. Sherlock wasn’t even aware his arm was around Moriarty’s waist entirely, keeping him trapped.

“Am I?”

“Indeed. I wanted to take them away because you work much better alone. Less time anxiously twiddling away your talents over how to fold napkins like the opera house.” Moriarty chuckled again as Sherlock’s lips pursed.

“And why would that bother you so much, Jim?” Sherlock said inquisitively, eyes scrutinizing the man at his mercy. Jim said nothing, only smiling with half lidded eyes flickering in candlelight. After moments of nothing, Sherlock released the lapel, his own hand smoothing out the creases over Jim’s chest, savoring the silken texture his own suits would never have. Moriarty watched his fingers, smile still in place and standing without so much as a twitch.

Eventually, he leaned in again, eyes glinting devilishly like he had a new secret for the detective. Sherlock found himself leaning in, desperate for something interesting. Some game, no more locked room murders with needles and camera lenses. Jim rose up on the balls of his feet, not quite on his toes. The position made their breath intermingle, nicotine still in the air as well as the champagne Sherlock had used to toast with. Jim’s grin only stretched further as Sherlock felt his lips parting of their own volition, the two of them just so close they could…

“Because we were made for each other, Sherlock.” His enunciation even in a conspiring whisper clicked on his teeth, sharpening the point. His breathing all but stopped. “And now, you don’t even have me.” Sherlock looked down into the eyes staring through him, how dilated the pupils were and how the light didn’t even reflect in them. He should have seen it earlier, and done something. He surged forward to claim the chance now, his lips brushing against cold, eyes slipping shut.

He stood back, hands dropped to his sides and eyes still shut gently. Sliding them open was a chore, seeing his vision already accustomed to the darkness of the gazebo with no lanterns lit, the smoke blowing up from the cigarette in his hand, and the cold space in front of him. Devoid of everything, thumping music behind him and echoing laughter, Sherlock realized he knew too well what it was like to be alone, and soon cast aside.

Alone wasn’t protecting him right now. Neither was the smoke he held in his lungs long enough to accompany the burn already present inside. 


End file.
